


Feed Me to the Wolves

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Spoilers, Suicide, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things that keep you alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feed Me to the Wolves

**FEED ME TO THE WOLVES**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; spoilers for "No Rest for the Wicked;" torture; suicide

  
There are things that keep you alive.

In the dark, when you can hear the screams around you, when you can smell the heat, thick and coiled against your skin, the rhythmic breathing on the back of your neck, the flashes of pain white hot as you arch your spine, as you struggle. In the dark, when they whisper to you about killing yourself over and over again, when they feed razors into your palms, when they trail cold fingers across your cheeks, your mouth, you think of your father. You think of his smile when he came out of the gate, when he saw you and Sammy for the last time. You think of his strong arms around you, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the musk of his aftershave.

You think of his voice, deep, rusty, his voice against the shell of your ear, against the crook of your neck, his stubble rasping across your skin, his hands digging deep into your back. You think of his hands on you and you think of his embrace and you leave this place for only a few minutes, only a few shallow breaths, the light and heat from the flames licking against the inside of your eyelids, the touch of razors and claws on your arms, on your face.

You may not believe in God, but you believe in your father, and that’s good enough.

***

They don’t keep time down here, but the boy you share a cell with, the one with the long cuts from wrist to elbow, well, he says he came down in 1978, but it feels like a whole lot longer than thirty years. This boy, the one with the scratches on his face, the one with the wounds that never quite heal, the scars that are never going to go away, well, he says it’s not funny ha ha, but this sure as hell beats his life on the outside, his life upstairs. The black circles around his eyes, his pale skin mottled with blood and dirt, he says, it’s not funny ha ha, but he’d take this place over his old man any day.

“Not funny ha ha,” he says, his voice reaching you in the dark, where your back aches from the floor, where your knees are pushed up towards your chest, where you just can’t stop crying.

***

There are things that keep you alive.

Before your father left, before Sammy went to Stanford, there was your family, before your mother died, there was Kansas. Before the demon, there was your faith, your mother’s hair tickling your chin as she bent down to kiss you goodnight, as she tucked the covers around you, her skin soft and beautiful, her perfume like flowers. Your mother saying, “The angels are watching over you, Dean.”

Saying, “The angels will always keep you safe, baby.”

This was before you stopped acting like a child, this was before you had to grow up, before you had to start taking care of Sammy. Before you worried about food and money and Christmas presents, your boots sinking deep into the snow as you snuck behind houses, testing each lock with a frozen hand before finally finding one, before finally slipping into the warmth long enough to grab the packages sitting beneath the tree.

Your mother saying, “You’ll never be alone, Dean.”

Saying, “They’ll always be looking out for you.”

This was before your father couldn’t look at you, couldn’t look at Sammy, drowned himself in whiskey every night, scratching frantically in his journal, drawing pictures of demons and monsters and ghosts, ink staining his fingers black, the lamplight harsh on the angles of his face. This was before Sammy cried every time your father touched him, before you were the only one Sam would listen to, his fists tight around the fabric of your shirt, his mouth soft against the crook of your neck. This was before you crossed that line, before Sammy started loving you more than anyone else.

Your mother saying, “You’ll never be alone, baby.”

Saying, “You’ll always be safe.”

***

Sammy says, “This isn’t exactly the Ritz, is it?”

And you say, “It’s Hell, Sammy. What did you expect?”

Sammy says, “At least a couple of pillows, I mean, jeez.”

And you say, “When did you become the funny one?”

***

The boy they kept you with, he hasn’t been around in a while, nothing left but a pool of dried blood where he sat rubbing his wrists, the scars red and ugly, just like the day you imagined he came, just like the day you imagined he opened his eyes and saw the fire for the first time. You don’t grow old down here, but you sure as fuck wither away, your skin wrinkled and puckered with holes, with burns, you’re wasting away and there’s nobody here to notice. You’re wasting away and there’s nobody here to care.

You don’t grow old down here, but you sure as fuck don’t stay young, the scars that have started to form on your arms, their claws, their teeth, the razors that they keep slipping you, you won’t die, but it’ll be a temporary relief. You won’t die, but it’ll be a breather from this heat, from their whispers in the dark.

The boy they kept you with, the only reminder that he was really there is that pool of blood, crusted over, cemented to the floor, his voice echoing, “At least in here I know I deserved this.”

Echoing, “At least in here I know why they’re doing this.”

See because his old man just liked to drink, nothing was really warranted, nothing was really justified, your father’s stubble scratching the corner of your mouth, scratching your cheekbone, his breath filled with whiskey. See because his old man just liked to touch him where he shouldn’t have, where he wasn’t supposed to, your father’s hands splayed across your back, his mouth against the shell of your ear. See because his old man just couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

His voice echoing, “Not funny ha ha.”

***

Sammy says, “I’m sorry you’re down here.”

Tracing the scratches on your face, the ones that almost cut down to the bone, the ones that will be healed tomorrow, fresh and new and ready to face another day or week or month, however long you’ve been down here. However long you’ve been away.

Running his hands through your hair, Sammy says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way out of this.”

Your face feels cold against his stomach, his fingers soft against your skin, your legs swollen from where they broke them, where they took your calves in their hands and just twisted, just pulled. Sammy and his fingers against you, against your face, there are things that keep you alive, but this is probably just another big mindfuck.

Sammy saying, “I’m sorry you had to do this for me.”

You want to say, “It’s not a big deal.”

You want to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll find some way to get out of this.”

Sammy’s hands against your face, Sammy’s hands tracing round and round your cuts, your scratches, the whispers that stay with you no matter where you are, the whispers that stay in your head, that will never leave you, you want to say, “Don’t worry.”

You want to say, “I’ll find a way to come back home.”

Sammy and his mouth so close to yours, so close, he smells like soap and rock salt and books, smells like family and Kansas and that place that you left behind when your father stopped being your father and started being John Winchester, hunter. Sammy says, “I’m sorry I meant that much to you.”

Sammy says, “I’m sorry that you loved me that much.”

And you say, “It’s probably worth it.”

***

There are things that keep you alive.

Your mother’s up there somewhere, up there watching over you with the angels she used to tell you about, and maybe if you believed, maybe if you just prayed hard enough, begged hard enough, she could get you out of here. You wouldn’t have Sam anymore, but you’d have your father, you’d have your mother, the soft golden light that you dream about sometimes, when they leave you alone long enough to sleep, that warm golden light that’s not fire, that’s not heat licking at your skin, licking at your palms, your feet. That warm golden light that’s not heat, that’s not whispers in the dark.

Your mother’s up there and sometimes you can feel her hands on you, sometimes you can just feel her touch, the smell of her perfume, that warm golden heat that’s not fire, that’s not pain, the burns on your body, the burns that will heal and turn into scars, just like that boy. Just like your father. Sometimes you feel like she’s watching you, even though you still don’t believe in Heaven, even though you still don’t believe in God and angels and that warm golden light, because you’ve seen plenty of demons and monsters, but you’ve never once seen God. You’ve never once seen an angel.

And there are things that keep you alive, but seeing is believing, and you haven’t seen anything good in a really long time.

***

Sammy says, “I’m lost without you, you know.”

And you say, “You have Bobby, you have Missouri.”

Sammy says, “It’s not the same.”

And you say, “You’ll be fine.”

Sammy says, “Not without you, I won’t.”

And you say, “You’ll learn how to live.”

And Sammy says, “What if I don’t want to?”

***

Sometimes the heat is unbearable. Sometimes the dark is just too much, and they keep telling you that it will be easier if you just give up, if you just let go, their claws slipping razors into your palms, their claws sharp against your skin, sharp against your face, your chest. They keep telling you that it will be easier if you just give in, their mouths so close to yours, and sometimes they’re men and sometimes they’re women and sometimes they’re monsters, sliding fingers and nails and claws against you, slicing your chest, scratching your face. Sometimes they’re your father, his sweet smell of whiskey, his musky aftershave, his rusty voice, sometimes they tell you that they’ve always loved you, that they’ve always wanted you, just like Sammy, just like your brother. Their rough hands running smooth across your face, your father’s eyes and your father’s mouth and your father’s voice saying, “Just give in, Dean.”

Saying, “Just give up, baby, and we can be together.”

Saying, “We can be free.”

And sometimes all you want to say is yes.

***

Sam would have burned your body by now, burned your body on a warrior pyre, Bobby with his hat off, his beard flecked with ash and bone, with blood, Sam’s eyes shut tight to staunch the tears, shut tight so he wouldn’t have to see your body curl up, float away. Sam would have burned your body and moved on, forgotten, stopped hunting, started school again. There is no more boy king and there is no more supernatural, just Sam and his school, his pretty little girlfriends, his law books. Now Sam can do whatever he wants because there’s no one there to stop him, there’s no one there to pull him back into this life of violence, there’s no one there to keep bringing him back to the life he never wanted, your life.

Sam would have burned your body, but maybe he would have kissed you first, that line you crossed when he was still a teenager, that night Dad never made it back from a hunt, that night you thought you were the only two people in the whole world, tucked away in a motel room with a broken fan and a TV playing nothing but static. Sam had asked you to kiss him and you didn’t say no and you were both so young, so innocent, no matter what you knew was out there, no matter what your father had taught you, you were both so perfect and nothing could have broken that moment. Sam and his soft lips against yours, you could never say no to him, no matter what he asked of you, no matter what he wanted, his fingers on your chin and your hands hesitant on his shirt.

Sam would have burned your body and left Indiana and forgotten about you and gotten a new life, one without hunting and dying, one without rock salt and shot guns and holy water, where he could be who he wanted to be. Where he could live like he’s always wanted to live.

There are things that keep you alive and knowing that Sammy’s up there without this burden on his shoulders, without this fucking cross to bear, without you and your father and this stupid life of sacrifice and martyrdom, well, that’s the best one. That’s the only thing you could have ever asked for.

***

Sammy says, “You don’t know how hard it is.”

And you say, “Well, you’ve obviously never re-built a car from scratch.”

Sammy says, “I’m serious, Dean.”

And you say, “I know.”

Sammy says, “I can’t live without you.”

And you say, “Well, you have to try.”

And Sammy says, “Maybe not.”

***

The first time you see him, he smiles at you as you shiver in the dark, your knees drawn up to your chest, your arms sore, your fingers cracked and bleeding. They liked to break bones, they liked to watch you scream. He smiles and you try to say something, but as soon as you open your mouth he’s gone.

The second time, they had used knives, tiny ones with serrated edges, long enough that you could have slit your wrists with one continuous stroke if you wanted to, one long line, just like that boy, his eyes dark as his voice echoes in the cell. The second time, his fingers graze your cheek and you have time to think fuck before he slips a finger into your mouth, tracing your top lip with his knuckle. He’s smiling and you’re trying not to cry and his skin feels exactly like you remember, soft and perfect, cold against your cuts.

He says, “Hey.”

And you say, “Sammy,” your voice wavering in the humid air.

The third time you see him, he’s your perfect little secret when they put you back on the meat hooks, when they leave you and all you can see is Sammy, your blood and your scars, the heat of the fire as it licks your skin. All you can see is Sammy, his little smile, his cold hands, and nobody can understand why you just start laughing.

***

The next boy they put in your cell, he’s been here since 1883. See because he just liked to touch the girls a little too much, a little too hard, the rope burn around his neck red and angry, even after all this time, even after his body’s been long since buried and forgotten, his eyes a brilliant blue, his smile crooked. His voice deep as he says, “Even after all this time, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

As he says, “Even after being down here, I wouldn’t want to do anything different.”

His nails short and dirty, his skin marred with spots of blood, scars that cover every inch, his mouth crooked as he says, “Everything they’ve used on me,” the heat, the knives, the razors they want you all to take.

As he says, “Everything they’ve done to me,” his scars, his blood.

His teeth dull and yellow, his mouth cracked, his mouth bleeding, as he says, “I’d never give that up.”

And you wonder if this is what you’ll become, if this is who you’ll be, after you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be human, after you’ve given up, after you’ve been down here so long that you’ve forgotten what words like remorse mean, words like regret. After you’ve forgotten who you used to love and who used to love you, your mother’s face, your father’s face, Sammy’s cold hands on your skin, burning deep inside you.

The boy with the rope burn circling his neck, his crooked smile, he says, “I’d never let them take that away from me.”

He says, “It was all worth it.”

***

There are things that keep you alive, but Sammy, this Sammy, his cold hands, his perfect mouth, he’s not one of them. He says, “Maybe it’ll be easier if you,” his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

He says, “You know.”

The razors they keep giving you, scratching worry lines into your palms, digging trenches, and you have plenty now, piled on the floor of your cell.

He says, “Maybe it’ll get you out of here,” his fingers like ice on your forehead.

And you want to say yes, and you want to give in.

He says, “Maybe it’ll be nothing, maybe you won’t even know,” the dark and the heat and the scars you’ve collected, your blood like water the way it drips down your arms, your legs.

He says, “Maybe it’ll be better than this.”

And you say, “It sucks when even your own hallucination turns against you.”

And Sammy says, “I’m more than that,” his fingers, your broken teeth, all you can taste is blood.

He says, “I’m more than just your brain, you know.”

And you want to say yes and you want to let him draw that razor down your wrist, but you’ve never given in to anything in your life, you’ve never made anything easy. Your father’s face, warm and scratchy, his voice deep in your ear, you’ve always been his soldier, and he’s never taught you anything about taking the easy way out.

And Sammy says, “Dad would have let you.”

He says, “Under the circumstances, Dad would have let you do this.”

His cold fingers, the cold metal, you know where this is going, but nothing ever looks bright to you anymore.

And you say, “What if it’s worse?”

And Sammy says, “How will you know if you don’t even try?”

***

And, well, you figure, things couldn’t be much worse than this.

***

It’s been four months, nine days, and thirteen hours. And when you open your eyes, the first thing you see is Sam.


End file.
